"
Without abating his manifestation of entire disapproval, George
produced a box of cigarettes, permitted P. Sybarite to select one, and
helped himself.
They shared a match, even as brothers might, before honest indignation
escaped the grim portals of the shipping clerk's mouth.
"Sa-ay!" he exploded--"looky here: where've you been all night?"
"Ah-h!" P. Sybarite sighed provokingly: "that's a long and tiresome
story, George."
With much the air of a transient, he sat him down by George's side.
"A very long and very weary story, George. I don't like to tell it to
you, really. We'd be sure to quarrel."
"Why?" George demanded aggressively.
"Because you wouldn't believe me. I don't quite believe it myself, now
that all's over, barring a page or two. Your great trouble, George, is
that you have no imagination."
"The devil I ain't!"
"Perfectly right: you haven't. If you point with pride to that wild
flight of fancy which identified 'Molly Lessing' with Marian
Blessington, George, your position is (as you yourself would say)
untenable. It wasn't imagination: it was fact."
"No!" George ejaculated. "Is that right? What'd I tell you?"
"Word of honour! But it's a secret, as yet--from everybody except you
and Violet; and even you we wouldn't tell had you not earned the right
to know by guessing and making me semi-credulous--enough to start
something--several somethings, in fact.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259